Our two windows stand on either side of a narrow slit of pavement six stories lower. I used to wonder why the architects would do something so intrusive as to line up bedroom windows like this, but then, the flat brick alternative would have been far too depressing. So now we peer into each other, often without intending. Semi-self conscious subjects and semi-conscious viewers – we are in each other’s fishbowl. But I see your light’s turned out. Our embarrassed observations will continue in the morning.

It’s strange that neither of us has bothered to put up curtains. That would have been the obvious solution. Instead I’ve gone to great lengths to position the bed out of sight, mostly. I’ve taken to changing my clothes in the bathroom, mostly. And I’m aware that you are genuinely uninhibited on both accounts. Might want to have that mole looked at though, I think it’s gotten bigger.

That woman you had over last night, do you think it’s serious? I think she’s serious about you. It was written so plainly on her face I could see it even at this distance. And I even like the buck teeth – gives her a darling bunny quality. Much better than the woman before. I knew that makeup encrusted old tart was no good from the very beginning. And where did she leave you? In a puddle of tears and tissues, drenched in three bottles of cheap whisky. Not that I was counting.

While we’re on the subject, what do you think of the beau? I’ve been debating on whether or not to keep things going. And I saw the look you gave him as you toasted your cups of coffee through the windows the other day – you’re apprehensive too. I promise he doesn’t always yell like that. Didn’t used too. But a lot of things are on the rocks right now, so I can’t exactly blame him. Can I? If we actually spoke, I’d be keen for your advice. The advice of an older man, like a distant uncle I’ve adopted. But no, that would cross a line we’ve been so careful to maintain.

How long have you lived in the building opposite my own? How many other tenants have come and gone from these windows? And did you have the same friendly non-relationship with them? Oh, listen to me babble against the darkness of your unlit window. I almost sound jealous. Curious. You are a source endless curiosity my dear neighbor, my imagined non-imaginary friend. We see each other swimming circles around our cheaply rented rooms, interpolating entire lives from the briefest bits of moments…

I maintain that I am not a good man. No, that’s not quite true. Good perhaps, but certainly not the best. I have my doubts about myself. About life. About the future and it’s meaning for me. But so does everyone, I suppose. Especially here.

No, I don’t think they envisioned this sort of existential crisis when they first started building the Hope. What a pretentious goddamn name. I wonder what little prick in the marketing division came up with that gem. Hope. A better name would have been Ambition. That’s what this is, after all. A great ambition in the form of a behemoth vessel with colonial intent, hurling itself toward a distant star. And here we are, somewhere in the middle, just waiting to arrive.

Or waiting to die. It’s true. Our destination, a lonely rock in Sector 419, is exactly three human lifespans from Earth. Three generations. The first takes off, the third lands, and we? We only wait.

And so men like me, the mostly good on our mostly good days, we have a drink. There is a particular bar for men like me. An unassuming room at end of a corridor on the third deck of the fourth zone. It is a nothing spot, but it is everything. Absolutely everything to men like me.

And sure. Sure, there are other bars of higher standing, finer drinks, and better crowds. There are other bars to be seen in and noticed. But that’s not why we come here, to the minor tap far out of the way. We come here for the bartender. We come here for Miranda.

“Hi’ya toots,” I say, taking my usual seat.

“Who let you in here?” Miranda teases. But only by half.

She is not a beautiful woman. Her shoulders are too rounded and too hunched. She has the same sad-puppy face of Eleanor Roosevelt. But she is the most beautiful woman. Though no one can ever quite figure out why.

“Miranda, darling, run away with me.”

“Yeah? And go where?” she says with a huff, pouring my drink without needing to ask.

“I hear there are some lovely little condos down in the fifth zone. Deck four. Very discreet.”

“More than that. We’re on a mission we didn’t start and won’t live long enough finish. No choice and no glory….and of course the kiddos will do great things, but what are we doing? We, the interim?” I say, slipping into lower feelings, “A whole generation marooned by the decisions of its forebears.”

Chairs shuffle down the bar. The clink of glasses. A dozen conversations rimmed with laughter. And I sit staring into the deep-end of my glass.

“Joseph, look at me,” she says. I look at her.

“Has there ever been a time when that wasn’t the case?”

I think through my warm and troubled fog. Reluctantly, I answer.

“I suppose not.”

“Mmm. So quit your whining.”

I can’t help but laugh. Miranda the mother-Valkyrie, always ready to provide a swift kick in the ass.

“You want to know what the interim generation is doing?” she says, “Surviving. Living. Doing everything it can so that future you envy so badly can exist.”